


So Where's Your Savior Tonight?

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [39]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Gore, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, M/M, Mental Instability, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 01:27:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5186987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Your father would roll over in his damn grave, he could see you right now.” </p>
<p>In which Sam is confronted with a slew of enraged Hunters, and he shows them, in no uncertain terms, why he's the King.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Where's Your Savior Tonight?

**Author's Note:**

> Graphic violence below.
> 
> Title taken from Communion of the Cursed, by Ice Nine Kills.

They set up Traps for him.

Devil’s Traps, like they don’t know he’s not a demon, not yet at least.

He’s not even dead.

He’s got all of the power, and none of the hangups. He grimaces at the thought. That’s not quite true. Consecrated ground pushes at him, roils uncomfortable in his chest, and he burns too hot with the desire to extinguish it. To break blood and bone over the steps of the Lord’s House.

He loathes the Father, that much is accurate.

But that’s more out of personal reasons than any King of Hell guidelines they might think up.

He’s meant to protect the innocent, but the only Grace, the only _protection,_ has come from he and Dean. Why is it so hard to believe that they might be like The Most High?

Dean doesn’t like for them to be harmed. It rankles Sam in the worst way, because can’t his brother see that they’re threat and judgment wrapped together, too defiled to be anything less? They cling like ash to his body, cover him in nightmares.

Sam thinks of Bobby, and it tempers him. He hasn’t seen the man since he took up the mantle, can’t rock the feeling that his father-figure won’t want him, not like this.

Sam’s not concerned with what people consider him. He’ll make it so that they don’t have the chance to think anything of him, ever again.

They’re lying in wait, pseudo-conversation behind him, clink of shot glasses and lime. Sam can hear throats swallow, four times in a row, too many for drinking, just enough for anxiety.

Sam pulls the lapel of his jacket up.

He motions to the bartender for another, smile creasing across his face as the guy slides him a shot of Jack.

He doesn’t need it, wants to add to the collection he’s haphazardly started. There are seven more where that came from, and he licks the edge of his thumb, tongue catching on the old callus there.

They _want_ him.

Sam thinks it’s so nice to be needed.

The bartender is a teenager, sixteen if a day, and, out of habit, Sam trickles through the registry, wants to see if this boy’s soul comes up as his. Kid’s clean. Boy’s got a soft look about him. He’s split raw, the way Sam thinks Dean might’ve looked at his age, if he weren’t already burnt clean by John Winchester and the Crusades.

The boy’s not stupid, and his pale eyes dart back and forth between Sam’s obvious presence, and the patrons behind him. They’re damn near motionless, idle conversation they think Sam’s fooled by.

This is a hunter’s bar, and the kid’s not anywhere close to legal, but the ethics of certain things fall to the wayside next to other, more important matters. He hums to himself.

Sam states as the boy tugs on his lower lip, bites it to distraction.

“Got any music around here?” Sam says gently. Sue him, he can be real sweet when the mood suits him.

Kid’s about this close to dropping the blue curacao in his hand, and Sam snorts to see him do it. “There’s uh, there’s a jukebox.” Kid sets the glass down, fiddles with the bottle pourer hooked to the top of the container.

“In the corner, behind that curtain.” The boy whips out a rag and scrubs aimlessly at the whorls lining the wood of the bar, glossing over initials and crudely drawn penises.

“Dad closes the curtain at night so drunks don’t accidentally smash into it.” He’s not looking up anymore, left hand braced against the countertop so he can really scrub at his imaginary stains.

“S’happened before. Twice, actually.” The boy says, hush of amusement in his voice mildly unexpected.

Sam twirls his latest shot glass in between his fingers, runs his open hand through his hair. It gets snagged on his collar more often than not. “Oh?” Sam says, injects enough enthusiasm in his voice that the kid looks up, willing to continue.

“Y-yeah.” The boy pauses, scrubs at his face. “Bar fights, y’know? Over who gets the next song, sometimes. If they don’t see it,” he continues, “it’s not there.”

Sam grunts his agreement. They don’t want to see, that’s the damn problem here. “What’s your name, kid?” Sam says, considering. The boy leans over, reaches beside Sam, hand hovering in question over Sam’s wealth of empty glass.

Sam waves a hand negligently. He’s done with them. The boy sweeps them in his arms and down into the makeshift shelf of his apron. The leftover liquid glides out smoothly, collecting on the soft caramel of the kid’s skin.

“My name’s Zion.” He turns around abruptly, allows the glass to tumble from his arms into the suds of the sink behind him. He lifts his apron up to swipe at the stickiness on his forearm, and Sam notices he’s got freckles.

Tumble like stars down his cheeks and just over the bridge of his nose. His eyes are a brighter hazel than Sam’s own, brown sugar and cinnamon.

Zion’s eyes dart around, and then he’s pressing his body as close to Sam as he can get, with the barrier of wood between them.

“They’re waiting on you to make a move--they know what you are--”

Several things happen at once. A man comes out the back, wipes greasy hands on the hem of his own apron, and his eyes narrow in Zion’s direction.

“Zy, you think the dishes gon’ clean themselves?” The voice is slightly playful, but there’s an undercurrent of something nastier in the tone. Something that makes Zion shrink in on himself, even though he’s already not that tall, 5’8 at the most.

“Yessir,” the kid mumbles, and the man turns slowly, heading back into the kitchen. Sam snakes his hand out, locks it against the fragile bone of the boy’s wrist. He runs his thumb around the knob, and Zion’s eyes widen, plaintive.

Sam doesn’t look up from the swath of skin he’s caressing, catches the thumb of his free hand in between his teeth.

“You hang out in the back, alright?” Sam says it lowly, releases the boy’s arm. Zion cradles the appendage to his chest and then ducks his head, nodding.

Sam’s perversely pleased by that, the little token of acceptance, and Sam’s eyes travel up the length of the kid, cataloging. He’ll know if anyone touches him, hurts him, before the night’s over.

Kid’s mixed, light brown of short curls close against his head, and he keeps his eyes low as he passes through the swinging doors of the kitchen.

Sam cracks his neck in the suddenly lessened noise. He stands, grunts a little with the stiffness in his right leg. He shakes it off, tucks large hands into his jacket pockets.

He sees the curtain Zion was talking about, in the left hand corner of the bar. He keeps his head up as he crosses over to it, can see the way hands tighten against thighs, pseudo-casual brushes against the waistbands of jeans.

They should be louder, Sam muses. If they really want to fool him, they should be as rowdy as hunters normally are, after a hard day’s work.

Sam lifts one shoulder in a shrug to himself.

He wanted them all here. He’s been coming, to this bar, for months now, establishing a pattern. Likes to get a drink every Thursday evening. He knows they’re not stupid, they know he wants them here as much as they want him broken and snuffed out on the hardwood floor.

Sam ducks behind the curtain and holds his breath, know they don’t think he can see, can hear the scrape of chairs as they move, click of safeties on guns.

They’re as foolish as he ever was.

They still believe in safety in numbers.

He glosses through his options, there are no top forty hits here, and he smirks to himself, small miracles. He flips through the glossary, thinks about the songs that Dean would pick, were he here. Dean’s not, though, and for that, Sam’s ever grateful.

He recognizes Sam’s need to be alone on occasion, and what’s better, he respects it. Sam doesn’t think his brother understands it, but Sam doesn’t know how to explain it to him without the exchange of pain. He can’t allow Dean to see what he looks like split open to bits.

He glides past Fear Of The Dark, hand hovers on The Battle of Evermore. He’s against that too, in the end, because as much as he loves Dean, there should be no part of him here. This belongs to Sam, and he wants to cherish it.

He settles on House of the Rising Sun on a whim, waits for the raspy voice of Eric Burdon to leak through the speakers and collect in the air.

He shrugs his jacket off and folds it carefully, sets it on the top of the Crosley, runs his hands down the ridged wood-paneling on the side of the machine. This one’s old, but well-kept, probably worth a few thousand in its condition.

Sam’ll take care that it’s not damaged, then.

He pushes the curtain back soundlessly, looks down at the sleeves of his black button-down and rolls them up, methodically.

There’s not a sound from men who were formerly laughing, and Alpha trips into awareness, scents the heavy malice in the air, bitter twinge of blood and lemons.

“Are we waiting turns?” Sam says pleasantly, roves his eyes over every man in the crowd. There are twenty-two of them here, and Sam thinks that he honestly would’ve allowed these men to co-exist with him, if they’d had the sense God gave a lemming.

He’s patient, if nothing else. He likes to think he’s _fair._

No one reacts for a second, they’re all standing, guns at the ready, and Sam can scent the salt lining every potential exit. He knows without looking up, that there’s a large Devil’s Trap scrawled on the ceiling above his head.

He’s felt it since he walked in tonight, pressing down at his consciousness, the desire to bind and subjugate. It lines the entirety of the bar, and Sam spares a moment of pride that the men were able to manage that.

They were his brothers, at one time or another.

“What you are, Winchester, is a goddamn abomination.” Sam hears, somewhere in the back. Sam laughs, clear and long, and when he comes back to himself, the men have formed a loose perimeter about him.

“Say it like you mean it, then,” Sam says cheerfully, and the men pull themselves in a bit closer. One man speaks up from his left, thin and rangy, and Sam can count the remaining hairs in his grey beard from here.

“Your father would roll over in his damn grave, he could see you right now.”

Sam thinks that this one’s especially foolish. Alpha’s holding himself so tight, because he knows that he and Sam are absolutely on the same page. Sam’s fingers are so quick he knows none of these men catch it, they’re not looking for it, and wouldn’t understand what they saw if they were.

The man’s spine snaps cleanly in half, the way Sam meant for it to. He watches the emotions flit across the man’s face, terror, then mind-curdling pain, and his Beretta slips from his shaking palm, clatters on the ground alongside his body.

Sam reaches out with his mind, tugs the gun from its place on the floor, and it hovers in the air above him. The men are transfixed at the display, and shudder simultaneously when Sam snaps his fingers and the metal dissolves into synthetic ash.

Sam’s blood sings as he hears the resounding cock of firearms, and one very notable light-machine gun, fed from a belt, rather than a mag, Sam notes passively. The man who carries it is big, compensation, Sam thinks dryly.

“That’s all I get?” Sam reaches behind him, fingers closing around a seat. He spins the wooden barstool swiftly, and it turns, wobbling, in his direction. He sits down before it’s fully done with the tilt. The man closest to him has a beard like a Viking, curling down well past his chin, and his eyes are hunter-green, ironically enough.

He flings a vial of holy water into Sam’s face, takes a half-step back when Sam doesn’t flinch. “I’m a man, just like the rest of you,” Sam says airly.

He whips the Glock from the man’s grasp, fluid hands, no tricks involved. Sam doesn’t bother turning the gun so he’s holding it by the barrel, could cost him time he doesn’t have. He opts for a heavy overhand strike with the side of the Glock, near the cylinder.

It pops the man squarely in the temple, and he folds like a wet blanket, crumpling in on his limbs.

Sam steps over the body, jerks his index, and the man’s head twists violently to the left, neck cracking on death in the silence.

Sam’s not even all that shocked when they finally start shooting.

Alpha is howling in tandem with the weaponry, and Sam’s mouth is bared in a grin, because this is the definition of his creation.

Sam’s body is cut with seventeen bullets at once, ten of them from the burly man with the Mk 48. They connect with his chest, passing through flesh and blood, and if he couldn’t protect himself from any attack, he’s sure they’d hurt.

He pushes the bullets back out of his body, flattened at the points of entry, eyes the jagged holes in his person that are already well on their way to stitching themselves back together. Sam whips the machine gun out of the Rock’s arms with his mind, twists the steel around the man’s neck and hangs him with his own weapon.

The toes of the big man’s boots scrape noisily against the floor as Sam cuts off the circulation, noose of metal crushing trachea. The man’s face goes grey-pale with death and Sam drops his body carelessly. It clips a table on the way down, Heineken bottles tipping and crashing as they procreate against the floor.

Sam’s angry now, they’re fools, all of them. What do they hope to gain by sacrificing their lives to him this way? That’s all they’re doing, assisted suicide. Sam thinks it’s like a macabre suicide-by-cop expedition, but it’s costing him nothing at all.

He warned them, in his own way. He kept coming back, long after he knew they were in wait for him. He scented them, left his mark on the town, the glass, the air. He told them, in no uncertain terms, that he was _here,_ and he was _hungry._

He’s doing nothing but keeping his promises.

He ducks fluidly as a man swerves behind him, butt of his gun raised in an attempt to smash it into the exposed back of his head. Sam wraps the man in a chokehold from behind and hauls him over his shoulder and body to smash to the floor.

The man is stunned on the ground, not dead, and Sam kneels next to him. “It’s polite to say thanks, when someone gives you a gift.” Sam says.

The man’s face pales, not a gradual loss of color, but rather like all shades bleed out of him at once, and Sam watches the blood pool in his mouth, slosh over the sides like snow from a plow. The man’s body contracts in seizures and his boots slap haphazardly against the ground, non-control of limbs. The blood eeks out of his wide-open eyelids, trail of tears.

Sam disposes of two at once, they’re running at him, guns cocked, and he reaches out one hand, closing thumb and index together in a pinch. Their heads slice together, and Sam listens for the resounding crack of bone against bone.

They’re not dead, just knocked out, but Sam amends that quickly, choking them to death from where they lay on the ground, thumb, index and middle joining together roughly for the loss of air. It’s a grotesque parody of a Force chokehold, Sam thinks, blankly.

He always wanted to win.

Sam’s tired now, he’s had his fun. They’re inexorable, they come at him in the name of their own interests, no thought for the righteous, for any God above themselves. They weary him, with their cause, and their self-sacrifice and their damnation.

He freezes the last five in their tracks, and they’re battered and bleeding, various head wounds, wide open gashes lingering on exposed skin. They shove against invisible bonds, thrash in place, feet nailed to the ground like a free-standing cross.

Their God can keep them.

His face is blank when it begins, and guns clatter from hands that swore they’d never release. They clutch at their heads, and when the screaming starts, Sam feels Alpha recede, likes the warmth of his wolf curling in his own brain, watching alongside him.

Saline tears turn into blood-rivers, and collect so rapidly there are puddles of crimson in their eyelids. Sam knows they can’t see anything past the thick film of plasma hovering over pupils. He’s smashing their brains in, and he can see how that might be a trying experience.

He watches as their heads collapse in, the hollow parts where bone dissolves, and he presses in harder, so the brain liquefies. Facial features crumble around the dissolution of the skull, and Sam savors every snap because they’re his to give, and his to take.

They crack like popcorn after the bag has been taken from the microwave, residual heat still cooking away at their insides.

Sam glances down at the unsavory picture he makes when he finishes, sweeps his eyes around the massacre. It’s cleaner than he thought it would be. There are no exploded body parts, no bits of skin sewn into the wall.

He attributes that to the fact that he didn’t give any one of them the chance to speak, held his tongue in his head.

He remembers the boy, Zion, and a pleased smile crosses his face, because he listened, remained in the kitchen even though it must have frightened him to do so. He thinks that meeting Sam head-on, in the eye of the storm, would’ve terrified the boy a lot more than simple sounds.

He settles himself back down in front of the bar, rolls his neck until every bone south of his clavicle cracks in absolution.

His hand flutters, braced against the edge of the countertop, and the mostly-full bottle of Glenlivet smacks into his outstretched palm. He’s tipping the bottle back against his lips in a well-deserved congratulations when the loose doors of the kitchen slap open.

Sam’s eyes slide shut and he hums against the clean burn of liquor in his mouth.

He’d forgotten about the father.

Sam sighs deeply, pulls it right up from the center of his chest, and moves with all the briskness of a snake bite. He doesn’t bother lowering the glass from its tilt against his mouth, flings the bottle away from himself, right where he can scent the applewood of the kid’s dad.

The bottle connects to the man’s face with a satisfying crack, and the man screams, rattle of his gun as it crashes to the floor. He raises newly empty hands to cup the right side of his face, and the Glenlivet has sprinkled to the floor, leftover edges of glass embedded sharply into the man’s cheek.

Sam wastes no time, he’s all about out of his good humor, and it comes in short supply when it’s not in relation to Dean, anyway.

“So goddamned hard-headed.” Sam observes. Beta, Sam sniffs. “You can scent it. You can scent their death.” Sam shakes his head, so hard it pinches.

Sam wraps his fingers around the man’s neck, and he lets out a strangled cry, removing his hands from the mutilated half of his face to weakly grasp at Sam’s fist.

“Let me tell you,” Sam says, leaning forward conspiratorially. “There’s no prize, man. They don’t give you anything for it.” Sam’s abruptly enraged, uses his grip around the man’s neck to drag him closer. Zion’s father’s feet dangle away from the ground as Sam raises him up to meet his own height.

“You just keep giving yourself. That’s all that’s worth anything, in the end.” The man’s face is inching toward the ashen of death, and Sam can’t feel anything, can’t feel the whine of Alpha in the back of his mind, the hum of alcohol in his system. The cloying scent of death and defecation in the air.

He only looks up when the boy exits the kitchen as well, apparently not frightened enough to continue in his obedience.

The boy is trembling from head to toe, and that settles somewhere between wrong and immoral in Sam’s category of Things He Does Not Condone. Sam moves so that his father’s body is maintained on his left side, and Zion glances from Sam’s face to his father’s in obvious terror.

“Please,” Zion says, and Sam remembers Dean again, invasion of his brother’s face an unwelcome distraction. Zion, soft in a way Dean would scoff at, could never know how to be. Sam thinks it comes of the giving, the loss of identity.

Hunting.

Sam lowers the man to the ground, hand still loosely clasped around his neck in a warning. He’ll not be letting go any time soon.

“He won’t bother you. We won’t bother you.” Zion’s voice is thin, but fairly strong, and Sam sniffs in curiousity. ‘Mega, then. That would explain his flavoring, dusky peach and honey. Sam shakes the man in his grip, his head rattles against Sam’s knuckles.

“He had a gun pointed at me, kid, or did you miss that part?” Sam’s aware his voice is harder than it was before, but this is what he gets in exchange for mercy. Apparently, it’ll take a few losses for him to fully understand its futility.

Zion shakes his head, takes two steps forward.

“He _won’t._ I promise.” Zion’s hands are tight to his sides, and Sam’s mangled soul twists at the sight of him, sends bile lurching up his throat.

Zion’s father speaks for the first time, and Sam’s gaze drifts down to his prisoner. “Witch.” The man sputters, voice raspy from temporary strangulation.

“You’ll put a curse on us all, just like they said.” Sam’s humor returns with a vengeance, and he laughs, long and hard, until his voice is dry and all that exits is a wheezing gasp for air.

Zion’s faded eyes are round as the moon in the heavens, and his father has stilled entirely in Sam’s hands.

“They destroyed your bar, your life, and didn’t even have the courtesy of telling you what I am?” Sam asks, wipes tear-tracks from his cheeks.

Zion’s holding himself so stiffly Sam knows it has to hurt, but his eyes gloss over the boy and back to his father.

He’ll have to kill him, now. He never planned on leaving him alive, but he entertained it, for the sake of the boy. Sam doesn’t like any loose ends, he’s learned that the hard way.

What’s dead never stays dead, but Sam’s always liked a challenge.

“I’m the King of Hell,” Sam whispers, private secret for the trio of them. “And, if you’re lucky, you’ll get to visit me downstairs.”

Sam allows the man to experience all the horror of shock, fear and dismay, and he catalogues the emotions. He knows what a blow it was, just how many lies the hunters fed this man, for God knows how long.

He knows what it’s like to be lied to. He remembers what it means to lie. Sam tightens his fingers then, and it’s a small matter to end what he began. The man doesn’t fight nearly so hard as the first time, obligatory muscle spasm of relief, and Zion’s voice catches in his throat on a wail.

Sam drops the man when he’s finished, head smacking loudly in the death of the bar. Zion doesn’t scramble back, but his eyes are wet with tears. Fear-scent leaks off of him in crashing waves, each bigger than the last, and Sam looks down at his own body, drenched in blood, at the picture he presents.

He sighs, cleaning himself up from one moment to the next. He feels better in his suit, not as comfortable as the clothes he really likes, the ones he and Dean were raised in, but he likes the barrier it provides. He likes being able to lock himself away.

Zion stumbles when he watches Sam go from blood-stained and ravaged, to front-row cleanliness, but he still doesn’t run, only tilts his head up to meet Sam’s gaze.

“You gonna kill me now?” He asks quietly.

Sam raises his eyebrow. He cups one palm around the boy’s face, smiling inwardly when the kid leans into it, his eyes fluttering a little. He knows Zion can smell his Alpha, lethal in his most recent destruction.

“No,” Sam says. “I’m gonna save you.”

 

 


End file.
